Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

Dost thou know what a hero is? Why, a hero is as much as one should say, a hero.

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My designs and labors and aspirations are my only friends.

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The morrow was a bright September morn; The earth was beautiful as if newborn; There was nameless splendor everywhere, That wild exhilaration in the air, Which makes the passers in the city street Congratulate each other as they meet.

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Sunday is the golden clasp that binds together the volume of the week.

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The dawn is not distant, nor is the night starless; love is eternal.

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No endeavour is in vain; Its reward is in the doing.

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Day, like a weary pilgrim, had reached the western gate of heaven, and Evening stooped down to unloose the latchets of his sandal shoon.

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Therefore trust to thy heart, and to what the world calls illusions.

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The bravest are the tenderest.

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O ye dead Poets, who are living still Immortal in your verse, though life be fled, And ye, O living Poets, who are dead Though ye are living, if neglect can kill, Tell me if in the darkest hours of ill, With drops of anguish falling fast and red From the sharp crown of thorns upon your head, Ye were not glad your errand to fulfill?

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Under the spreading chestnut tree The village smithy stands; The smith, a mighty man is he, With large and sinewy hands; And the muscles of his brawny arms Are strong as iron bands. . . . He earns whate'er he can, And looks the whole world in the face, For he owes not any man. . . . Toiling,-rejoicing,-sorrowing, Onward through life he goes; Each morning sees some task begin, Each evening sees it close; Something attempted, something done, Has earned a night's repose.

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Each morning sees some task begun, each evening sees it close; Something attempted, something done, has earned a night's repose.

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Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution, She lives whom we call dead.

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Well I know the secret places, And the nests in hedge and tree; At what doors are friendly faces, In what hearts are thoughts of me.

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Evil is only good perverted.

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Let us then, be up and doing.

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It is autumn; not without But within me is the cold. Youth and spring are all about; It is I that have grown old.

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The grave itself is but a covered bridge, Leading from light to light, through a brief darkness!

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Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight shining, Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day, Tremulous leaves, with soft and silver lining, Buds that open only to decay.

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Look at this vigorous plant that lifts its head from the meadow, See how its leaves are turned to the north, as true as the magnet; This is the compass-flower, that the finger of God has planted Here in the houseless wild, to direct the traveller's journey. Over the sea-like, pathless, limitless waste of the desert, Such in the soul of man is faith.

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